


Elementary 06: The Dorset Street Case (1883)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary: The Complete Cases of Castiel Novak (and Dean Winchester) [6]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Gay Sex, London, Loss, M/M, Murder, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:13:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4463306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>Case 19. SKIN (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Speckled Band')</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

I have said, quite accurately, that Cas and I lived together in three homes during his illustrious career; Montague Street, Cramer Street, and of course Baker Street. However, our next adventure, originally published as the Case of the Speckled Band and set as our first in the house that was to become a home to us, was in fact solved from elsewhere. This was due to matters that at first I thought to be just architectural, but which would eventually lead to a break in our relationship that would cut me to the quick.

The initial problem came about because of the late Mr. William Harvelle, whose death – I would go so far as to call it killing – had brought his widow, Mrs. Ellen Harvelle into our lives. We were due to leave Cramer Street in the third week in March, and there was no problem about our taking up accommodation in Baker Street immediately – except that the late Mr. Harvelle had, without informing his wife, arranged for a firm of local builders to renovate the very rooms were were to take, and unfortunately the first she knew about it was when she arrived home the day were were due, and found the place in turmoil. Even more unfortunately, the men had been instructed to replace the main window, and had already knocked out the old one. Had I not been so gravely inconvenienced, I might have felt pity for the poor workmen on the receiving end of our future landlady's ire, which could rival the wrath of God!

Obviously we could now not move in for some little time, and were in sudden and urgent need of rooms. Mrs. Harvelle, God bless the woman, quickly went round her contacts, but the best she could find was Mrs. York, who had a single room available in Dorset Street, the other side of Paddington Street Gardens, so a short walk from Cramer Street and therefore the surgery. After a hasty discussion, it was agreed that Cas would go to live at his parents' house for a month (the face he pulled at that prospect was memorable!) whilst I lodged in Dorset Street. Mrs. York proved a wonderful landlady, and I only regret both that she did not possess a vacant double room and that my memories of the place were soured by events pertaining to my time there. 

Dorset Street is a moderately long road, running from Park Street in the west to where it turns sharply south by the Gardens and becomes Manchester Street; about halfway along it crosses the lower reaches of Baker Street. My readers may wonder why I did not originally mention my time there in the ensuing story, but dear Mrs. York was a shy lady who had an abject horror of publicity, and when I eventually came to publish our next case, I first travelled back there to assure her that I would not mention her house in any way. It was the least I could do; she saved me at a time when circumstances had thrown me for a loop, and despite the misery that did subsequently ensue, I would always be grateful.


	2. Case 19: Skin (1883)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Speckled Band'.

I

Though I hated school for the most part, I, like most people some years on, could only recall odd memories of my time there, and mostly good ones. One such was being told the tale of King Croesus of Lydia (yes, that Croesus) who, prior to engaging the larger Persian Empire in battle, sought the advice of an oracle. He was told that 'a great empire would be defeated', and rode off in confidence, only to be killed and have his country dismembered. The great empire that got itself defeated was, of course, Lydia, not Persia.

I would have bitter cause to remember that tale in the year eighteen hundred and eighty-three, when my misunderstanding of an all-too-accurate prophecy caused me no end of suffering.

+~+~+

“There has been another death.”

I looked down despairingly at my excuse for a breakfast, and wondered which of Cas' brothers had upset the staff this time. I had not thought it possible to have so many culinary disasters on one plate, but unfortunately it was.

During my enforced separation from my friend, I had taken to breakfasting at the house in Dorset Street from Monday to Friday, and coming to Sir Charles' house on weekends. On weekdays Cas would come to my house whenever he could, though not having him in my life all the time was proving surprisingly difficult. 

He was wearing his pyjama top open again, and his hair looked like.... well, the result was that something else a few feet down was pretty hard too. I willed down my erection – hardly suitable given the fact many people in this house openly disapproved of me – and looked across the breakfast table at my friend, who was hidden behind the Times. Unfortunately I could all too easily guess his meaning.

“Who this time?” I asked.

“A Mr. Heinrich Schmidt, a member of the German Embassy”, Cas said gravely. “And as before, a dead snake skin was placed on the victim's body.”

I nodded. This was the third such incident, each of a German or German-born person in London. The first had been a month ago, when a maid had been stabbed to death in her sleep on a train. The second was two weeks back, in which a bank clerk had been murdered in his own house. That had been a few days before our move out of Cramer Street, so I had not paid as much attention as I would have otherwise done.

“Evenly-spaced attacks”, I observed. “The killer is trying to instill fear.”

“And succeeding”, Cas said, waving the paper at me. “The Editorial advises all Germans who can to make shift to quit the capital until the killer is safely behind bars.”

I could not but agree. Relations between London and Berlin had been tense ever since the Franco-Prussian War twelve years prior, when Europe had been shocked to see German troops marching into Paris (the German Empire had only been forcibly united some five years prior to that). Ever since then, it had been an open secret that the Kaiser was aiming to detach Great Britain from its unspoken alliance with France, helped by the fact of our dear Queen's eldest daughter marrying the Kaiser's son and heir. Someone deliberately targeting German citizens in the English capital would not help matters.

“The Kaiser's son and his wife are coming to London the week after next, to visit the Queen”, Cas said, and I wondered if he had been reading my mind again. I was about to ask when I realized the implications of what he was saying.

“You do not think they would dare attack royalty?” I asked, shocked.

“Consider the victims”, Cas pointed out. “We had a lower-class maid, a working-class bank clerk, and a middle-class accountant. If the 'Speckled Band Killer' moves logically, their next victim should be upper class.”

“But the security will be incredibly tight!” I insisted.

“The attacker has all the advantages in this situation”, Cas said calmly. “They can choose the precise time and place of their strike, and those defending can only hope they have covered all possible lines of attack. No, this must be solved as a matter of urgency!”

+~+~+

I had had another busy Friday at the surgery, and was not pleased when I was asked to take an extra patient for a pregnancy test after my leaving time. Though when she entered the room, I was surprised to see that I recognized her.

“Miss Barnes!” I exclaimed. 

It was indeed Miss Pamela Barnes, whose unfortunate sister and cousin had met their tragic (if deserved) ends in the Tay Bridge disaster some four years prior, during the case of the Musgrave Ritual. I had read that she had married Cynric Musgrave just prior to his brother quitting his title and emigrating, and had not been surprised. She smiled knowingly at me.

“It's Mrs. Cynric Musgrave now!” she confirmed. “My dear husband wanted me to come for an official pregnancy test, even though....”

“You already know, don't you?” I said with a sigh.

“A healthy baby boy, seven pounds and one ounce”, she said. “But Cynric tends to have a panic attack when I do that, so I decided to do it the old-fashioned way.”

I wondered why she had not gone to her own doctor, but it was not my place to ask. Instead I gestured her over to the screen.

+~+~+

I handed Mrs. Musgrave her results.

“Positive”, I assured her. “Everything looks good.”

She smiled.

“Cynric and I are living in Herefordshire now”, she said conversationally. “When his brother left, he did not really want to move all the way to Scotland, so he sold the place to a local school, and we have a much nicer house on the Welsh border. We are visiting friends in the capital.”

She stopped, and looked hard at me, her hand on the door to leave.

“Hard times are coming, doctor”, she said, a note of warning in her voice. “Before this month is out, you will lose one of the most precious things in your life. But remember, that which goes can also return.”

She was gone before I could reply. I stared after her in confusion.

II

The next day, I went to Cas' house as usual, to find his rooms there had apparently been visited by a small tornado. There were newspapers everywhere, and Cas sat in the middle of them, making notes.

“I am trying to deduce a pattern from the first three murders”, he said. “Unfortunately the tendency of the average London journalist to exaggerate makes it hard to sort the grains of wheat from the granaries' worth of chaff!”

“It all seems very odd”, I said, making a mental note to clean up the mess if I got the chance. “As you said, if someone wishes to harm the princess, then placing it in a sequence of murders will only make those around her increase their security.”

Cas squinted at me thoughtfully. As so often I had the feeling I had said something important, and as so often not the first clue as to what.

“Tell me about the victims”, I said.

“The first was Gertrude Wells, a maid to the Hope family of Clerkenwell”, he said. “Twenty-four, single and of good character, she had worked for them for two years, and was thought of as quiet but a good worker. She was stabbed to death in her carriage on the London, Chatham and Dover Railway near Swanley Station, and a dead snake skin from the species known as 'the Speckled-Band Cobra' was found across her body. No-one benefited from her death, as far as I can ascertain; she had but a few pounds saved, which went to a brother living in Germany.”

“What about her employers?” I asked hopefully.

“Mr. Hope is deputy manager at a stonemason's in the Minories, whilst Mrs. Hope stays home and cares for their three children. Bearing in mind how difficult it is to find good servants, they had no apparent motive.”

He flipped over a page on his notepad.

“The second victim, an alpha called Gordon Walker, is a little more interesting”, he said. “He lived with his brother Gareth, and worked for a private lender near the Bank of England. He was shot, not stabbed, and again a snake-skin placed on the dead body. The Gazette took great pains to make sure their readers knew there was an estrangement between the two over an inheritance from an uncle in Germany, which went solely to Gareth, the elder.”

“A different method of killing”, I noted.

“Shooting someone on a suburban train would likely draw attention”, he said, “Especially in third-class where the dividing walls are paper-thin. Mr. Walker was killed at home in the afternoon, and the house he and his brother shared is somewhat isolated. His brother Gareth works as a clerk for Martinson's Bank in St. Paul's. His sibling left him some family jewellery he had inherited from their mother, but he had made a will last year leaving the bulk of his estate, such as it was, to animal charities. Not more than ten pounds, it seems.”

The detective flipped another page.

“And to the most recent victim, Mr. Heinrich Schmidt”, Cas said. “A singularly unpleasant young man, by all accounts. Disliked by his neighbours and work colleagues alike for his generally superior attitude, and had already been warned for his conduct at the Embassy. His landlady had also given him notice to quit, for disturbing the other tenants by playing his trumpet at all hours of the night.”

“One cannot murder someone for playing an instrument badly”, I muttered, glancing covertly across at the violin resting on the table. Not covertly enough, judging from Cas' narrowed eyes and huff.

“He was shot”, Cas said, looking at me with the same hurt puppy-dog eyes that I had thought were the preserve of my little brother. Which was just unfair!

“Do you seriously expect someone to attack the princess and her husband when they come?” I asked. 

“I fully expect some sort of attempt to be made”, he said. 

That worried me. Because Cas was usually right about these things.

+~+~+

A week passed, during which Cas made little or no apparent progress on the case. Work at the surgery continued to be heavy, and I became used to arriving home well after my time. Until the following Friday, when I managed to get out only ten minutes late and hurried home, looking forward to a long weekend in. 

I was barely through the door, however, when Mrs. York accosted me. I groaned inwardly, the woman's one worst failing was the ability to talk without any apparent need to draw breath. I prepared my excuses for escape.

“I just thought you should be forewarned, sir”, she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Your good friend Mr. Novak is waiting for you upstairs. He arrived earlier with his father, and they waited in your room for some time before Sir Charles left.”

I raised an eyebrow at her. Did all landladies listen at keyholes? She frowned at me.

“There was some shouting, sir, which I could hear two floors down”, she said defensively. “And Sir Charles looked quite pale when he collected his things before leaving. Your... friend feels things very deeply, sir. I just thought you should be prepared.”

I wondered at the hesitation before the word 'friend', but decided to dismiss it. I thanked her, and headed upstairs, wondering if my.... 'friend' would want to talk about his visitor.

+~+~+

Cas did not want to talk about his visitor. He wanted sex. And it would have been in the open doorway, had I not fended him off at first.

“What is the matter?” I asked. He looked as if he had been close to tears, and only his visible anger was holding them back. 

“Bed, now!” he grunted, trying to wrap himself around me. He was physically stronger than me, but he always stopped if I made it clear that I did not want things to progress. Of course this was my friend, and I would have done anything for him, but I sensed that having sex with him now would not be a good idea.

“Bed, definitely”, I said, locking the door behind me and starting to carefully remove my own clothes. “But we are not having sex whilst you are in this frame of mind. It would not be right.”

For some inexplicable reason, that seemed to break him. He uttered an almost inhuman wail, and crumpled to the floor. Halfway out of my trousers, I nearly injured myself trying to reach him, and I pulled him up and guided him to my bedroom. There I undressed him and laid him on his bed. He grasped my sleeve with an almost impossible strength and stared at me in panic.

“I am not leaving you”, I promised, finishing my own undressing. “But we cannot have sex whilst you are like this. I am going to just cu.... hold you in your bed, and we are going to lie together whilst you recover.”

He looked bewilderedly at me, but nodded. I finished undressing and slipped in opposite him, pulling him close. He was always an octopus in bed, but now it seemed as if he was trying to climb inside me. I would have objected, but I sensed he needed me like this, so I said nothing. Mercifully, in a few minutes he was asleep, still clinging to me like his life depended on it.

III

I woke the following morning feeling ravenously hungry – of course, I had skipped dinner last night – and with a human octopus still gripping me tight. It was my need for the bathroom that persuaded me to work myself free, and although I was back in barely a couple of minutes, he was awake by then, sitting up and blinking owlishly at me. I sensed, correctly as it turned out, that whatever had made him so upset the day before was Not To Be Spoken About, and I did not know whether to be sorry or glad about that fact.

We walked over to a nearby cafe for breakfast – I did not wish to inconvenience Mrs. York, and was definitely not going to chance a Novak breakfast after my culinary ordeals there of late – then continued to Cas' house. Cas held much closer to me than normal, almost tripping over me on more than one occasion, and I could feel his uneasiness. I was glad, therefore, when on arriving there was a hansom waiting outside, which hopefully signalled a case, or at least someone with information.

Our guest was a young anaemic-looking blond alpha in his early thirties, very much the sort of person who is destined never to make an impression on life. I wondered what he was doing here. 

“Mr. Jacob Westbury”, Cas explained as I sat down. “Thank you for coming. You work at the same bank as the second victim's brother, Mr. Gareth Walker.”

He nodded, though I did not see the relevance. Cas continued.

“You say Mr. Walker started back yesterday?” he asked quietly. The man seemed spooked by the question, judging by his flinch, but he answered readily enough.

“He came in just for a meeting with Mr. Bull – our branch manager – so he could start back on Monday proper”, he said, sniffing. 

“How did he seem to you?” Cas asked.

The man seemed puzzled by the question.

“I don't understand.....”

“Was he well?” Cas asked. “Pale? Worried? Anything unusual?”

“Just a bit out of it?” our visitor said.

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, Sandra – sorry, Miss Barling – made everyone a coffee whilst he was there, and Gareth put sugar in his. I asked him when he had started taking it, and he looked startled, and said it reminded him of his brother. It was all a bit... weird.”

“Of course”, Cas said flatly, but again I could see the light in his eyes which told me he was onto something. “Now, tell me about the bonds.”

The man went a deathly shade of white, and shuddered in his chair. I leapt up and quickly poured him a brandy, then held it to his lips until he had drunk it. Slowly his breathing stabilized, and he looked at Cas in shock.

“Who told you?” he gasped, his voice unnaturally high.

“I just knew”, the detective said. “I assure you, anything you tell us will never leave this room. Please go on.”

The man shook again.

“Last year, the bank was given the opportunity to purchase an American bank, and establish ourselves in the United States”, he said. “But to do so, we needed to ship a large number of gold-backed bonds over there, to convince the American authorities of our good faith. That is why the majority of the bank's money is currently sat in a safe in our strong-room, in bonds.”

“Who has access to it?” Cas asked.

“Only the branch manager, Mr. Bull”, Mr. Westbury said. “There are two keys on two sets, but the second one is kept at our head office, miles away.”

Cas nodded.

“Thank you, sir”, he said. “Do you happen to have Mr. Bull's address?”

“I only know he lives in north Kent”, our guest said. “But Miss Barling lives over the bakery opposite the bank - it is called Sweet Somethings - and I am sure she should have it.”

“Good. We will detain you no further, and as I promised, we will say nothing of our meeting to anyone. Good day.”

+~+~+

“A good man, but a trifle naïve”, Cas observed after he had left. “If I recall, the princess and her husband are due to arrive at Victoria Station early on Monday?”

“Yes”, I said. 

“Then, regrettably, we must dishonour the Sabbath and persuade Mr. Bull to temporarily open his bank tomorrow.”

I looked at him in confusion.

+~+~+

Extracting Mr. Bull's address from Miss Barling proved a tortuous affair, but eventually even she succumbed to Cas' charms, and having sent a telegram requesting Mr. Bull's urgent presence, we adjourned to sit outside the magnificent cathedral. After what seemed like an interminable wait, a hansom drew up, and a short, balding beta alighted and looked frantically around him. Cas nudged me, and we got up and crossed to meet him.

“Mr. Bull?” Cas asked.

“I presume you must be Mr. Novak”, he said, clearly annoyed. “I am to assume that there is a good reason you dragged me away from my Sunday dinner?”

“If preventing the theft of those bonds you have in your bank is a good reason, then yes”, Cas said calmly.

He really had to stop having that effect on people. Mr. Bull swayed violently for a moment, but managed to catch himself.

“If this is some sort of joke, gentlemen.....”

“I merely need you to open your bank, go to the safe and check that the bonds are still there”, Cas said. “My friend and I will remain here, if that eases your mind at all. Kindly return to us when you have done so.”

The manager stared at him for a moment, but evidently decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, and walked off to the bank's huge doors. 

“Have the bonds been stolen?” I asked after a while.

“I do hope not”, Cas said. “Though I doubt our portly friend will be able to find out for us.”

“Why? I asked.

Cas' reply was prevented by the sound of a door being slammed shut, and I looked up to see the manager locking the bank's door. He was almost running when he reached us.

“Gentlemen, I don't understand it”, he said. “I do not know how it has happened, but....”

“.. your keys do not fit in the safe-room locks”, Cas finished for him.

The manager stared at him in horror.

“How could you know that?” he gasped. Cas did not answer him.

“When are the bonds to be transported to America?” he asked.

“Thursday week aboard the SS Britannic, from Liverpool”, the manager said.

“Is that fact widely known?”

“The bank staff know, yes.”

Cas pursed his lips.

“I wish you to mention, on the bank floor tomorrow, that the bonds are to leave first thing Tuesday morning instead”, he said. “Say that because your American friends demand it, you have switched to the SS Arizona, which sails that evening from the same port. I believe an attempt may be made on them, and I would force the hand of the thief.”

“You cannot mean poor Walker!” he exclaimed. 

“I am absolutely certain that Mr. Gareth Walker will not attempt to steal them”, Cas said silkily.

Not for the first time, I had the distinct impression that there was more to my friend's words than met the eye.

IV

I looked out of our hansom in surprise.

“I thought we were headed back to the house”, I said.

“I decided it would be better to call in on our dear friend Henriksen first”, Cas said mysteriously. “It is usually better if these things are done through official channels, you know.”

I had no idea what 'these things' might be, but I nodded anyway. Hopefully Cas would explain things later. 

As it turned out, Henriksen was discussing a case at another station, so Cas left him a note and we adjourned to a restaurant for a pleasant Sunday roast. Whatever Cas' message was, it had been an important one, for a telegram from the sergeant was awaiting our return to his house. Cas read it, and smiled.

“All is well”, he said. “Dean?”

“Yes?”

“My brother Balthazar is coming round this afternoon, to discuss a somewhat delicate family matter. I do not suppose you could possibly take a walk for an hour or so? He is here at two-thirty.”

“Of course”, I said, a little put-out, but determined not to show it. Though judging from his expression, I failed in that ambition.

+~+~+

I had a full day at the surgery on Monday, which was exhausting enough. However, at around mid-day news reached us that someone had indeed fired shots at Princess Victoria and her German husband, although neither had been hurt. The incident had happened as they had been alighting from their train at Victoria Station during the start of the morning rush-hour, so the assailant had been able to get away. I arrived home at almost exactly my usual hour, to find Cas looking worried.

“What is wrong?” I asked.

He looked at me uncertainly.

“There has been a fire at Edinburgh University”, he said gravely.

My heart dropped. Sammy!

“Your brother is quite all right”, he said. “The telegram came at three, and rather than disturb you at work, I immediately sent back to ask for details. They came not half an hour ago. Your brother sustained minor burns, but that apart, he is unharmed.”

I all but collapsed in relief. Cas looked at his watch.

“I took the liberty of booking you on the night sleeper from King's Cross”, he said, much to my surprise. “You will need to leave in about an hour if you are to make it.”

“Oh”, I said. “Er, thank you. That was very kind.”

He smiled.

“I see shots were fired at the princess”, I said. 

“Yes”, he said. “Henriksen has his man.”

“The gunman?” I asked.

“And the killer of those three other people.”

“What?” I almost shouted.

Cas gestured for me to calm down. 

“Mrs. York is packing a bag for you, and dinner will be served here in less than ten minutes”, he said. “You can eat, collect your bag from Dorset Street and easily make the night train. Yes, the killer is in custody.”

“Who was it?” I asked, my head spinning at all these developments.

“Mr. Gordon Walker.”

I stared at my friend in shock.

“But he was one of the victims!” I protested.

Cas sat me down, and handed me a whisky. I needed it.

“Mr. Walker knew of the impending arrival of the bonds at his brother's bank”, he explained. “So he hatched a plan. First he kills an innocent shop-worker who he knows is German-born. Because he also knows how newspapers function, he leaves a rare dead snake-skin on her body, one of several he stole from a museum during his last visit to Germany. He wishes to establish that this is a sequence of attacks, and not to draw attention to the target crime, which will be the second one. Hiding a leaf in a forest may be a cliché, but it is often effective.”

“Two weeks after that, he strikes. We had been told, you recall, that Gordon and Gareth Walker were brothers. It was only when I challenged Henriksen that he obtained a photograph of the two for me, and I realized how similar they were in appearance to each other.”

A light began to dawn.

“Mr. Gordon Walker kills his brother, and again leaves a snake-skin on the body. He then switches identities with him. The clerk is now dead, and after Gordon Walker has buried his brother under his own name in Germany – he needed to avoid going to the bank until the bonds had actually arrived – he can take his place there.”

“Surely someone would have spotted that he did not know what he was doing?” I objected.

“Any mistakes on his first days back would be put down to shock”, Cas said. “Remember, Mr. Westbury thought that about the mistake he made with the sugar in the coffee. That is also why I wished Mr. Bull to expedite the theft by stating that the bonds were to be moved sooner than expected. Suddenly our killer has only one day to strike. But that is all right – after all, he has the keys to the safe.”

“What?” I exclaimed. “How?”

“He has seen the keys, so he knows what they look like, one small and one large kept on their own chain”, Cas said. “He had a vaguely similar-looking copy made, then when he went to the bank on Friday, he feigned illness and asked for a glass of water. Mr. Bull fetched it for him, and in his absence the keys were swapped.”

“So that was why Mr. Bull's keys did not fit on Sunday!” I exclaimed.

Cas nodded.

“Two weeks back, he commits the third murder, this time of someone fairly important”, Cas said. “Again, the snake-skin denotes the now infamous serial killer. Naturally speculation turns to the forthcoming royal visit. Then this morning, he goes early to Victoria Station. I would speculate that he gained a position high up – the sound of gunfire would echo off that great roof, making locating a shooter difficult if not impossible. Since no-one was suspecting him, it was easy to happen past the scene of the attack shortly afterwards and drop both a used cartridge case and a dead snake-skin.”

“He then goes to the bank, where he discovers that the bonds are to be moved tomorrow. But that is not a problem. He has some time before established a small cubby-hole for himself in a room at the back, somewhere he can stash the bonds for twenty-four hours. Henriksen confirmed this, and that the room had a small slatted window opening out onto the back of the bank. He would have retrieved the bonds in the small hours of tomorrow morning, once the hue and cry had died down.”

“That's brilliant!” I said. “And they have him!”

“Henriksen caught him coming out of his back-room just before closing”, Cas said. “And he still had the platform ticket from the station this morning. He is as good as hung.”

Before I could congratulate him further, there was a knock at the door and a maid entered, bearing what looked like a full English breakfast.

“That's perfect!” I smiled. Sammy was going to be all right, another criminal had bitten the dust, and I had the best and cleverest friend in the world.

V

Cas had sent a telegram to my colleague Peter Greenwood, informing him of my sudden absence, and upon my arrival in Edinburgh (my dear friend had even booked me into the Station Hotel, bless the man!) there were two telegrams waiting for me, one from Peter to assure me that taking the week off was fine, and the other from the hospital saying that my brother was well and stating their opening hours. Perhaps Mrs. Musgrave (as she was now) had been wrong, and I would not lose the most important thing in my life.

Poor King Croesus probably felt the same confidence going off into what would be his last battle.

I stayed in Scotland until Friday, at which time my brother was forcibly evicted from the hospital for complaining too much (a true Winchester!). His burns had indeed been minor and were almost all gone, and it was with a happy heart that I again boarded the night sleeper, looking forward to seeing London and Cas again. We had exchanged telegrams during my absence, and our things were to be moved that Friday from our respective houses to 221B Baker Street.

It was just before nine on Saturday morning that my cab rolled to a halt outside 221B, and I got out. I was surprised to see that the curtains were still closed; if he was awake, perhaps Cas had not yet followed his belongings.

I entered to find Mrs. Harvelle in the hallway, and greeted her warmly. However, the way she looked at me only increased my sense of foreboding. 

“You have a visitor”, she said, sounding strangely upset. “Mr. Novak's brother.”

“Which one?” I asked, hoping it was not the obnoxious Balthazar. She made a face.

“The one who brought Bill's letter. Mr. Balthazar Novak.”

So much for that hope. I climbed the stairs, wondering what the lounge-lizard wanted with us.

+~+~+

Something was very wrong. Balthazar Novak looked guilty.

“Where's Cas? I asked, looking round.

“Gone.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“What do you mean, gone?” I asked, puzzled.

“He had to leave on pressing family business”, Balthazar Novak said testily.

“When will he be back?” I asked.

“We don't know.”

I may have only been the whetstone on which the sharp tool that was Cas kept itself true, but I had dealt with enough patients to know evasion when I heard it. 

“You're hiding something!” I accused. “This is something to do with your father's visit the other week, isn't it?”

“Don't stick your nose in where it's not wanted, doctor!” he snapped.

I glared at him. Balthazar Novak seemed to soften a little.

“Father has agreed to pay his rent here until he returns”, he said, “so you don't need to worry your pretty little head about it.”

“I'm worried about my friend!” I snapped. “It's called friendship!”

Balthazar Novak stood up and crossed to the door before speaking.

“Is it?” he asked, looking at me meaningfully before leaving.

Damn her, Mrs. Musgrave had been right! I had lost someone important!

I was so lost in my misery that I did not at first notice the small envelope propped up on the table. When I did, and the fact that it was addressed to me, I was all fingers and thumbs trying to open it. Inside was a single piece of paper with three words written on it in his inimitable scrawl. 'Wait for me'.

I sank to the floor by his chair, and a tear welled up in my eye.....

+~+~+

The long, lonely Cas-less years begin....


End file.
